Actually . . .

I try to steal a glimpse, but he’s too fast for me.

The next time we bump into each other, it’s because he’s got a busted armoire and can’t fit it through the door. I could help, but he didn’t help me when I was trying to roll up a rug and he watched me wrestle with it. So I lean against the wall and cross my ankles, observing.

“Hmm. Having some trouble there, partner?”

He grunts, shoving harder.

“Please do take care not to scratch the door frame.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why not? We need a new door frame, anyway.”

“Okay, well. If you scratch it, you’ll be responsible for putting the new one on.” I don’t know why I’m feeling particularly argumentative today.

“Try worrying about yourself,” he suggests. “You’re going about this so inefficiently, it hurts.”

“I’m being thorough. What would Violet say if she saw you treating her belongings like this? So callous.”

I think the reminder of Violet is going to stick him where it hurts, but he doesn’t care. “I informed her myself of exactly what I was going to do with her belongings. I told her several times, after she told me I’d inherit it all. At any rate, I don’t see her here. She doesn’t have to deal with this mess. We do.” I notice how he glances furtively up at the ceiling, as if the ghost of Violet Hannobar might be bobbing around up there, keeping an eye on us. Maybe she’s the one who tripped him on the stairs earlier when I hollered up that I’d discovered his little secret (it was the remnants of a bacon sandwich, to which he’d sputtered, red faced, that it was vegetarian bacon; I took a bite and spat it back out, confirming he was telling the truth).

He’s taking forever with the armoire. He has to stop for a break at intervals, sweat rolling down his ruddy complexion, flecking his shirt. “Need some help?” I ask. I’m an angel.

“No.”

Lord, he’s stubborn. “I wasn’t going to help, anyway.”

“I know. Can’t wait to see you try to drag the pool table out of the billiard room by yourself.”

I point my nose higher in the air. It was already up in the air to begin with, because I have to yank my head all the way back to look him in the eye (it’s rude that he won’t at least slouch), but I’ve got to make myself as big as I can. An equal voice. “I’m keeping the pool table.”

“Yeah? Along with all the pets you’ve got living in it?”

“What pets—” I scrunch my nose when understanding dawns, and he almost grins—I can see one forming, but he tamps it down.

The armoire door swings open, trash skidding out.

“Oh!” I exclaim, bending to pick up a box. “Hey, I’ve seen these on commercials!” I dig a wire head-scratcher out of its packaging and inspect the thing. It looks like a broken whisk, but if I fit the prongs over my scalp, it’s . . . “Ooooh, that feels nice.” Wesley watches in bemusement as my hair becomes a tumbleweed.

“That’s from the second floor,” he tells me, “which puts it under my jurisdiction. You can’t have my trash.”

My inner raccoon sulks. “You can’t use my kitchen, then.”

“There’s a kitchenette upstairs. It’s in better condition than yours, actually.”

I press down on the armoire to make it heavier. He twists away from me, and it’s just the right angle to finally squeeze them both out the door. “Thanks!” he chirps. I make a truly ugly face at him, and it happens again: that almost-smile. He fights it and wins. I think he’s under a curse—if he laughs, he’ll die. This is a sensible explanation to me. It isn’t that I’m not a joy to be around, it’s that he’ll literally die.

Chapter 8

MAYBELL’S COFFEE SHOP AU has a musty odor to it, and there are a few trash bags building up along the wall.

“What’s going on in here?” Jack asks, waltzing over.

“I’m renovating.”

He nods, skimming the café. “Looks bigger.”

“I let out the seams of the walls to give us a few extra feet. I’m thinking about adding a hotel to the café. What do you think?”

“I think that’s the best idea I’ve ever heard in my entire life.” He brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “But I’m not surprised. Your ideas consistently amaze me.” His voice drops an octave. “So when are you going to let me take you to Venice on my private jet, you beautiful genius?”

I sigh. For whatever reason, Jack just isn’t doing it for me today. I’m finding his presence grating. “Rain check?” I propose, and his hopeful smile crumbles. He’s devastated, of course. Jack’s been chasing me for months.

The red light on the rotary phone flashes: IRL Calling.

“Anyway, life’s pretty hectic right now,” I tell him, swiveling to check on the batch of apple fritters in the oven. “Let’s try this again another—” Oh, that stupid red light won’t stop flashing.

I send the call to voicemail. “Maybell!” an aggravated voice blares through the speakers.

“Raghh, I was just about to leave, anyway! Give me a minute to wrap this up—goddamn it!” I’ve burned my apple fritters. Here! In my magical coffee shop where nothing ever burns! I whirl again and wipe away the café with a swish of my hand. Wesley’s knocking on my bedroom door.

“Are you in there?” he asks. Rudely.

I bolt out of bed, too fast, giving myself fuzzy brain static. Every time I’m interrupted mid-daydream, it’s an embarrassing reminder that I’ve once again lost touch with reality. I become irritable. “What?” I yell back.